Liar, liar

I’m a liar.
A filthy, no-good, low-down liar. And I don’t think it’s going to change.
I came to this realization the other night when I was having one of my wild and crazy evenings in which I make kids’ lunches for the next day while watching television. On the tube was “Everybody Loves Raymond,” and the episode dealt with Ray vowing no longer to lie to his kids. About anything. I didn’t finish watching the show, but I can only guess that his vow didn’t go far.
I started thinking, and I realized that I lie to my kids all the time. Of course, “lie” is such a harsh word. As a dad, I feel as though I have a bit of a license to, shall we say, embellish the bland reality. Some examples of some of the things my children believe:
1. I have a dragon. My son, Parker, who is four, thinks that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. And why does he think that? Probably because I told him that I have a flying dragon named Dottie that I fly to work on. He was having a very tough time going to bed one night, and I told him that if he got really still I would tell him a story. A special story. It went like this:
PARKER: A story about what?
ME: Uh...a dragon.
PARKER: What’s its name?!?!?!?
ME: Uh...Dottie?
PARKER: Can you ride Dottie?
ME: Sure...why not.
PARKER: Do YOU ride Dottie?
ME: Uh...yeah...to work. And Dottie lives on the roof of work.
Unfortunately, that snowball continues to roll downhill and most every night means a story involving Dottie. (Now there is also a Black Knight and a castle. I can’t stop.)
2. Allie used to be a monkey. I am perfectly content with children knowing nothing about how children get here. Fortunately, my wife is part of the team, so she can bring some sense to that situation when the time is right. But to date, I have stuck to my guns, telling Allie, who is 6, that we got her at the zoo, shaved her and cut off her tail. (Parker? Alien drop-off.) Allie thinks I am just kidding her. I laugh and laugh and laugh when she says this. And tell her to go talk to her mother.
3. I have the true powers of magic. And they are often harnessed for such bargaining moments as negotiating bedtime. For example, the other day, a button had come off the pants I was wearing. Being the survivalist I am, I found a safety pin and went on with my day. That night, Parker was (again) not too keen on the idea of bedtime. I made him a deal: If I could make the button on my pants disappear, he would put on his PJs and go to bed. A few magic words and VOILA! I revealed that the button was gone. He was amazed. When I made it appear by his toothbrush, he was almost a little scared at my awesome powers.
4. It’ll fall off. No need to expand on that.
5. Mommy’s got a meeting. Whenever Mommy is leaving, Mommy has a meeting. She can be going shopping. She can be going out with friends. She can be doing pretty much anything on the planet, and Mommy’s got a meeting. Why? Because meetings do not sound fun, and no child wants to get dragged to a meeting.
6. There’s a shot for that. In what may shock and amaze you, my kids are not that fond of getting shots. Well guess what – there is a shot that will make you clean your room, a shot that helps you pick up dirty clothes, and a shot that cures potty mouths (even if they have only risen to the profane level of “stupidhead”). I am sure there are nurses out there who have a hard enough time getting children to sit still for shots that they don’t need us adding to the anxiety by using it as a threat, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
7. You’ll break it. That’s how you get kids to put things down. Everything is breakable. A broom. The dog. A blanket. You name it. But the trick is to make sure that you tell them it’s breakable in a very panicky tone and with your arms stretched out like you’re trying to negotiate a standoff, so they get a real sense of urgency: ‘WHOA WHOA WHOA PARKER!!! Put down the throw pillow – you’ll break it. Now hand it to me gentl....GENTLY!!!”
8. No, Allie is not watching TV. On occasion, we’ll let Allie take the TV for a spin in the evening, in particular when a special show is on (she just loves “The Sopranos”). So when it becomes Parker’s bedtime, he often gets suspicious that someone may be having fun that he is not privy to. “Is Allie watching TV?” he will ask. I tell him no, because apparently telling him “Allie moved” was not nice.
So there you have it. I’m a filthy liar simply for the conveniences of child rearing. I am sure one day they will begin to wise up to my lies, and I will have to come clean. Of course, if they start questioning too much, I will let them know that they are being a little too curious. And there’s a shot for that.